Archive of Our Own

It was always going to be a painful day. The False User known as Sliske had manipulated the other Vosk into gathering on this day. He promised them the accursed Stone, on the day when the moon masked the sun.

It was only a matter of time until the burning itch flared up. If only the Vosk could be made to understand the pain his people felt, at least some of them might think twice before pulling power from Jas’s ‘Catalyst.’

Kerapac had secured an invitation on behalf of their people, but he could not bring himself to put his faith in Kerapac. Kerapac had brought this curse upon them in the first place, he had betrayed them all, yet still he believed himself a savior? Vek Kerapac.

Later that day, skulking around his sanctum, the Dragonkin felt a scant increase in pain; it was a dull pain, the kind that resulted from a mortal not fully absorbing the Stone’s power. It has begun, he reasoned to himself. Soon the real agony will come.

Only minutes had passed when suddenly, the affliction erupted in a way it never had before. Without warning, his skull felt as if it was fit to burst, every inch of skin began to burn, every muscle strained itself and each bone began to rattle. He screeched without a single breath as this went on for nearly a whole minute, cursing the mortal races and their ‘gods’ aloud for his torment!

… And then it ceased; the pain subsided. And it continued to diminish. And then more, and even more. The pain soon dropped below what it was at the day’s dawn, yet even still the searing in his mind continued to recede. Within a minute it waned to a minor discomfort. The next it was nothing but a minor itch. In just a single minute more, it was gone.

The pain was gone. His mind could not believe this. His body could not fathom this. His very being was unable to comprehend this. It didn’t feel natural to be without pain - it was… foreign. He had to meet the others. He had to know for certain. The castle. They will be at the castle. So to the castle he went.

He arrived to find Strisath, Kalibath, and Sithaph already present. All were silent - no words were needed to express what they were thinking: Kerapac had actually done it.

That was nearly four years ago. Today, Sakirth could make as much sense of it as he had then. He was free, his people were all free - but what now? For millennia, all they had known was hunting the Vosk, all they had understood was the pain and the hatred.

Kerapac, he heard, had seen himself once more bound to one of the Roakin Artefacts. The Dactyl were, as always, not very forthcoming with details, but to Sakirth’s understanding, Kerapac had actually repeated the very thing that brought the curse upon them to begin with. Vek Kerapac.

The few remaining Necrosyrtes had gone off into the world alone, likely all plagued by the same conundrum that he had spent four years pondering himself. Sometimes, the others would come to him for advice or for help. He had nothing to give them, he was no more certain about the future than they were.

He had traveled many places since the curse broke, such as his peoples’ old strongholds, which still stood throughout the various lands.

Some were uncovered, but some - like the one on that island of pirates, one west of the Mahjarrat’s odd ritual stone, and one below the place called both ‘Senntisten’ and ‘Saranthium’ - had never been unearthed.

Even the Kin need fresh air, but he did not wish to bother - or to be bothered by - the mortals. He was also afraid, though whether he was afraid of what they would do or what he himself would do, he was uncertain. Any reaction to him would not be a positive one, and he was likely to respond poorly to such an attitude.

As such, Sakirth now found himself at the summit of a tall and snowy mountain, which separated two of the human kingdoms. He was standing at the precipice, gazing down upon one of their settlements. It was high noon, though the rays of the sun above did very little to neutralize the frost in the air. The sun served only to blind him - he believed this a fitting metaphor, as it perfectly matched how he felt.

What is it that we are meant to do now? he wondered, as he had so many times before. How do we move forward with our existence? What purpose do we serve? The accursed Stone is no more, but our only purpose for living has vanished with it. Sakirth couldn't help but let out a low, wry chuckle. We wanted the shackles broken, but now that we're free, we don't know how to leave the prison.

The mortal races of this world will surely be averse to the idea of our people living among them, they consider us destroyers of worlds, enemies of their so-called gods. They would show us nothing but disdain, the Dragonkin growled. It was not the mortal’s fault, of this he was well aware. It was the misdeeds of the Roakin. There is not one among them who would dare to speak for us. We Kin are universally feared and hated.

How I long for the days in my home, how I yearn for the Nodon-built structures of Orthen. Under Her curse, I had not the time nor the inclination to dwell on such things. These memories are a curse all their own; wishes that can never be granted, dreams that can never come true. He let out a defeated sigh.

There is nowhere left for my people to go, Sakirth lamented. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nobody to care. Perhaps the Skekslan has finally broken?

His thoughts were disturbed by a familiar surge of energy behind him, one that occurred when a rift in the planes was opened. It would appear another of his kind had sought him out.

“I cannot help you,” Sakirth preempted his guest with sullen honesty. “If you seek guidance, I have none to give. Please… leave me be.”

Snow crunched as whoever had appeared did not heed his advice, approaching him.

“I said leave me be,” he repeated with a bit less patience.

Still the footsteps came closer. Sakirth refused to turn and greet his visitor, in hopes that they would simply go away if unacknowledged. Yet, when they reached the brink, his eye was drawn to the figure by his side.

This figure was not Kin, it was human. She was tall for her race’s females; hair long and red like their blood, tied up into twin tails. Eyes of a color not far off from his own scales, and skin only a few shades darker than the white blanket they stood upon. This human girl was familiar to him. She had many cognomen, though one title stood above all the rest: World Guardian.

Sakirth’s reptilian eye studied his guest closely. This was easy, as the eyes of the Kin saw better around them than before them.

Her attire and body language both suggested she was ill prepared for the harsh chill of the mountains. Bare forearms crossed tightly to her torso, which itself was well covered by only thin layers of linen. From what little he knew of clothing, this material provided hardly any warmth compared to the felt his robes and stole were crafted from.

She was unarmed save for a strange green dagger on her belt, which exuded the same aura as the tear in the abyss she arrived through. Sakirth’s gaze hardened; This is a fragment of the Elder Blade. Even now, I feel the Roakin’s touch upon it. Yet, the energy is altered in ways I cannot explain. Is this human truly able to influence the Artefacts at such a base level?

The World Guardian peered over the cliff to a particularly large building below, pretending as if she were not chilled to the marrow. For several minutes, the two were silent.

The Dragonkin was first to break this serenity. “Why have you come here, Stone-toucher?” he asked.

“I’m looking for someone,” she answered, eyes unmoving.

“You will not find them here, whoever they are,” he asserted.

“You’re sure about that, are you?” she retorted with an odd chuckle. “What about you, Sakirth, why are you here? I thought Dragonkin preferred warmer weather?”

Sakirth’s vision fell towards the snow beneath his feet. She was correct; he had only come here because he would not expect another Kin to do so.

His gaze returned to the tiny town below. “My business is my own,” he argued. “Your place is down there with your kin, not freezing yourself upon the peaks.” He pointed the hand nearest her down to the small buildings. “So go.”

A momentary silence followed. The World Guardian had paused to pull something from memory, or so her posture suggested.

“Herethen,” she proclaimed, finally recalling the word.

Sakirth eyed her, suspicious. “This is our name for the area below, indeed.”

He was no fool, he had learned to trust no one over the millennia. “Few mortals have ever learned to speak our tongue, and none without reason - what is your reason?”

The girl’s head tilted just a shade. “I didn’t have a reason, really. In truth, I stumbled upon your language while looking into another race entirely.”

“Forgive me, Stone-toucher, if I find such a story hard to believe,” he sneered. “What other race could possibly be intertwined with mine in such a way that it leads you to our language?” he questioned, almost interrogating her.

“The Ilujanka,” she answered. “Better known as the ‘Dragon riders.’ I believe that name implies all the connections there are.”

Begrudgingly, the Necrosyrtes accepted this answer. He was aware of these ‘Dragon riders’ and their ability to commune with dragons.

“Very well then,” he continued. “How did your investigations into the Ilujanka lead you to learning our speech?”

Still her gaze was unmoving. “My start in your language came around half a decade ago, when I found a primer in a library also containing a petrified Ilujanka. That particular word was already contained within the primer, though I’ve since added to the book.”

“No library on this plane - or any other existing plane for that matter - would contain such things,” he countered, losing patience.

“The library in question belonged to Robert the Strong,” she countered in turn.

The name alone pushed Sakirth’s buttons harder. “Careful, Stone-toucher,” he warned, “that name will serve only to suggest hostile intent. I advise you to either find another source or lie, should my kin question you on this. For the sake of your life.”

Her lips curled into a weak smile. “I already have another source,” she clarified. “One of the Dactyl, Vicendithas.”

“And how, might I ask, had you been making additions to your book prior to meeting the son of Kerapac?” His suspicion remained; over the years, he had developed unremitting caution.

“I tracked down various Dactyl labs across the world, recording writings left on the walls in those dungeons.”

“Those absent-minded fools,” he hissed, “leaving our text around for mortal eyes to gaze upon! We should have destroyed all their labs when we had the chance.”

The human blinked. She may have been unaware that the Necrosyrtes had destroyed Dactyl labs. “Well, speaking of things you destroyed, I actually learned a lot on a planet called Kethsi…”

“Oh yes, the Vosk who attempted to combat us with the Stone,” he recalled, almost fondly. “That a race claiming to be so brilliant could ever be so stupid… their bane metal could not save them, and their fate was deserved.”

“Actually, it was from the journals left behind by a Dactyl named Forcae that I learned the most about your language,” she corrected. “He moved there after your group attacked his lab on Gielinor. His rune dragons are still there even now.”

Sakirth let out a low growl. He had less love for Forcae than he did for Kerapac. Had they known he retreated to a planet they’d destroyed, he would’ve been skek, dead.

“The last set of murals I found were in the ruins of Ulthven Kreath.”

“Ulthven Kreath?” he asked, unaware a place with this name existed.

“That was what Kerapac called the temple Kranon performed his ritual in,” she explained. “I had to go there to… well… to kill Kranon.”

Sakirth turned his head in surprise. “Kranon was alive?” he asked without thinking.

The World Guardian shook her head. “He and Taraket were both undead, serving a… thing of shadow. They were attempting to repeat their ritual on a grander scale, to bring their master’s gaze upon Gielinor.”

“Sokun-Kranon!” Sakirth sneered, turning back to the empty air. “We should never have allowed him to infect so many minds with his poison!”

He took a deep breath, calming himself. “The curse had recently taken hold. We were in no position to put a stop to him…”

No longer did he wish to speak on the subject. “Through what manner of trickery have you coerced the son of Kerapac into acting as your translator, Stone-toucher?” he demanded.

Again the human shook her head. “You misunderstand, Sakirth. Vicendithas and I are friends. We’ve been meeting every second Ivanday of the month for lunch, and I’ve been assisting with some experiments of his as well.”

The Dragonkin let out a hearty ‘Skethzzzz’. “A Kin befriending a human? Ridiculous!”

What am I saying? He condemned these words in his mind. Minutes ago, I lamented the misgivings of the mortal races. This is perfect!

Before he could speak up again, she replied, “I would have said the same thing before meeting Phalaks.”

“Ah, so you had followed Tarshak to Phalaks’s dungeon of drudgery after all,” he noted. “I had presumed you’d gone off to treat your burns.”

She laughed, recalling the fireball Sakirth had nearly charred her with. “Oh don’t worry, I had those treated as soon as you let me leave Tarshak’s sanctum,” she joked. “But yes, I interrupted Tarshak and Phalaks in his laboratory.”

The human girl shivered as a particularly strong gust of freezing wind whipped up.

“Phalaks is friend to you, then?” he wondered aloud as this gust occurred. “I suppose he has always been more tolerable than Kerapac.”

“Actually, c-come to think of it, Phalaks is the one who directed me here,” she added, stuttering once from the chill. For the first time, she quickly glanced towards her fellow conversant.

This did not go unnoticed. “Yes,” he said, askance. “You said you were looking for somebody. You should continue your search.”

The World Guardian fell silent. Sakirth continued, “Unless you came to speak to a destroyer of worlds and slayer of gods, that is. Otherwise, you are certainly not looking for me.”

“No, I have not come to speak with anybody like that,” she admitted, pausing briefly to turn herself towards the Dragonkin she meant to address. “I am here to make a request of the Syrtes Elder of the Kindra Council.”

Sakirth froze in place, staring off into the distance at nothing. ‘Syrtes’ and ‘Kindra’ were words his mind had forgotten. Their caste’s name had been tainted millennia ago, and the council had not met since millennia before even that. It was upsetting for these terms to sound foreign to him, and they served only as a reminder of what the Roakin had taken from the Kin.

So many memories and thoughts were brought to the surface by these two words alone. Memories of his accomplishments and his deeds, thoughts of his profession and personal possessions. He remembered his faith, and that the Syrtes had been the most theological among his people, though he was more of an artisan than a theologist. Emotions the Elder had long since abandoned flooded his mind; his love for his family and his pride in his mastery of his craft, among other things. For several minutes, Sakirth forgot both where he was and the human next to him who had spoken the words that spurred these memories on.

Once he regained his composure, he turned to face her. She had waited patiently for his mind to ease, a show of courtesy rarely given by the mortal races.

“How do you know these things?” he queried, suddenly patient in his own right.

“I learned of the Council through the hibernating Nodon,” she answered, “through their dreams, to be more specific. Maragan and Daraval’s memories of your final meeting were intact.”

The Syrtes was shocked. “The Nodon still hibernate after all these years??”

Her gaze broke away. “Not exactly… How much have you heard about what Kerapac did after destroying the Stone?”

“Little. The Dactyl have always been the least communicative of our people.” Sakirth shook his head in disapproval of that. “I know that he attempted to once again activate the wretched device that angered the Roakin to start with, and that he had become bound to another Artefact for his crimes.”

The World Guardian nodded along with each point made. “All of that is true, though it’s what comes before those events that I was referring to. I meant how he brought back Orthen.”

“I do not understand. ‘Brought back’ in what way?” Sakirth was apprehensive - part of him already knew the answer. They were weakly connected to every Roakin Artefact, after all.

“Kerapac asked for my help in gaining control of the Needle,” she told him, “but he lied to me about his reasons. I didn't trust him, but I knew he couldn't do too much damage as Guardian of the Needle. What I didn't know was that he had the Siphon, and he used it to not just control the Needle, but to gain full dominance over it.”

 Her tone made it quite obvious she was still bitter about this. “He used the Needle to pull a version of Orthen from the past here, into the present. From what I read in his lab, it was not long after the curse began. That’s why the Nodon were all still there.”

“Were?” he questioned, fearful of the answer.

A sullen sigh. “Kerapac was using the Nodon as a power source for his device,” she mumbled, contrite. “When Jas bound Kerapac to the Needle, all of the Nodon were bound with him… except Maragan and Daraval.”

For a moment, Sakirth felt as if he was going to explode. Rage not dissimilar to that caused by the Stone itself welled up within him. Kerapac had once again brought misfortune upon their people, playing at being a god.

In anger, he let loose a shout, “VEK KERAPAC! CHEN ON KERAPAC! RATH ON KERAPAC! HAK GELIK!” He howled with such intensity that the World Guardian took a step away, frightened by his outburst.

“We were all free,” the Elder roared into the air. “We could have woken the Nodon and rebuilt Orthen! Why must you always drag us down with you?!” Sakirth screeched at the top of his lungs.

Everything said after this is better forgotten by the world. Suffice to say even the World Guardian, who had previously spouted obscenities in six languages at once, would rather forget the rest of the Syrtes Elder’s tirade.

Once Sakirth was calm, silence returned. This stillness persisted for nearly a minute. Sakirth wished to know more, but the human hesitated to speak. Another gust of freezing wind evoked a shiver from her; her body temperature dropped by the second.

The World Guardian continued, though she still would not meet his gaze. “My team from the Archaeology guild has been hard at work excavating the ruins of Orthen, including Vicendithas, who I appointed as our official translation expert.” She paused, perhaps to know if he’d disapprove of their actions? “We’ve found… a lot. I’ve learned of the deeds of the Nodon hunter Varanus, and much about the Aughra mystic known as ‘Skeka’ as well.”

“I don’t suppose you found anything that would lead us to what secrets Skeka was hiding?” Sakirth asked. The Council had suspected the Aughra were still being dishonest about her experiments.

“Oh, well, yes, actually,” the World Guardian confirmed. “Behind even Dahaka's back, she was creating a machine to transfer the consciousnesses of living things into other bodies.”

“She was doing WHAT?” Sakirth growled. “The Council would never have allowed such a thing, no matter how wise it may seem in hindsight!”

“She wrote as such, actually. Some parts of her journal were well-preserved in her secret ritual chambers, on the south of the island.” The Syrtes’ fists clenched, so she hastily continued. “If it’s any consolation, she may have already punished herself.

“Not long after the curse, she ended up accidentally transferring her own mind into a group of lizards, which named themselves the Xolo. They built an entire city of gold in the south-eastern complex, it’s actually rather beautiful…”

“Accidentally?” he asked, steadily losing patience again.

The human let out a small nervous chuckle, it seemed she knew he would not like the answer. “Her intent was, according to her journal, to…” She hesitated for a single moment. “To switch herself with the Raksha…”

Sakirth gingerly turned away from the human girl. Though the peak of this mountain was largely bare, save for the cold snow that covered it, his body had soon come to face an enormous - although isolated - pillar of ice.

A horrifying shriek called forth a massive ball of fire from his gaping mouth, discharged directly at the oversized icicle. It took only this single fireball to reduce the entire column to its gaseous form.

The Elder turned back to face his human visitor. “I apologize. Please, continue,” he said with genuine civility, not wishing to alarm her.

Courtesy such as this following his outburst only baffled her even more. “…The reason I came to see you was because I believe I might have woken the Raksha when I touched a chain in the Xolo city,” she explained, sounding somewhat ashamed.

Sakirth thought for a moment before saying, “My advice to you is that you evacuate the island. The Raksha's containment will not hold for too long, the Shadow battery will drain quickly if it has truly awakened. Alternatively, of course, you can bring Varanus to us here, if you have a way. He would be able to subdue the Raksha.”

“Sakirth, sir… I’m sorry, I should’ve been more clear.” She scratched her head nervously. “I intend to quell or dispatch the Raksha myself. What I need your help with is something more in your own field of work,” the World Guardian clarified.

“How will my area of expertise assist you in combating the Raksha?” he questioned, truly unsure of her rationale.

“I know you were the master smith of the first Dragon Forge, in Orthen.” Her bravery was finally built enough to look at him. “I know it was you who spearheaded the integration of aurichalcum - true dragon metal - into Dragonkin society.”

His expression was blank. “Aurichalcum cannot pierce the Raksha’s hide, girl. No substance on this world can, that's why Varanus could not merely kill the beast.”

“You’re right,” she confessed, “that’s why I don’t plan to use aurichalcum to fight it. I plan to make a metal stronger than anything found on this plane, and I need your help to do it.”

The Syrtes metallurgist was intrigued; he was aware that the World Guardian was a renowned smith in her own right. “And what, pray tell, necessitates my assistance?”

“Because the alloy will use aurichalcum,” she explained. “More specifically, I will be adding aurichalcum to the process that creates an alloy called aetherium. The Archaeology guild recently rediscovered this alloy at an Aviansie citadel.”

Sakirth nodded, he was very familiar with the concept of metallic bonding. “What materials comprise this ‘aetherium’? Is it a substitutional or an interstitial alloy? Does it require heat treatment to reach its full potential?”

“You waste no time getting into it, do you?” She gave a light smirk. “It doesn’t require heat treatment, it’s a substitutional alloy, and… the process by which it is made is not exclusively metalwork.”

“Ah, so magic is necessary as well then, is it?”

“The process is alchemical in nature,” she specified. “The four base metals are actually taken from the followers of four gods - Saradomin, Zamorak, Armadyl and Bandos.”

The Kin cut her off with a low rumble of his throat. The first two ‘gods’ were not to be spoken of in his presence.

“We don’t need to involve them directly,” she assured him. “Silvthril from the Everlight, Hellfire steel from deep below Forinthry, Stormguard steel from the same citadel, and Warforged bronze. Infused with water, fire, air, and earth magic respectively.”

Sakirth shook and tilted his head in confusion. “The process of liquidizing the metals would undo the enchantments, would it not? I don’t see how alchemy would solve this, unless…”

The World Guardian nodded. “That’s right. You extract all but the tiniest sliver of the enchantment from each metal and fuse that runic energy into one, held together by the fifth element, quintessence. You store the omni-elemental energy away, then reapply it to the resulting alloy.”

“Oh, I see.” Sakirth was genuinely fascinated now. “So this fifth element, quintessence, it is added to the omni-essence, or is it simply a catalyst, altering the essence without being added to the final product?”

“It acts only as a catalyst.” Her tone had lightened; this was going better than she expected, it appeared. “Exactly what change it makes to the essence I cannot say, but it retains enough of its original components that I recognized the four elements within.”

“Hmmm…” Sakirth abruptly turned thoughtful. “This almost reminds me of Zorgoth’s experiments on Lithkren… very curious.”

“Zorgoth?” the World Guardian asked, confused. “As in, the Dactyl Elder?”

“The very same.” The Elder’s mind journeyed back over two millennia. “He attempted to infuse a dragon with elemental runic energies, but your ‘Robert the Strong’ tracked him to Lithkren, northwest of Orthen, and killed him.”

She blinked, even more perplexed. “Why haven't Kerapac, Phalaks, or Vicendithas ever mentioned this to me?”

“Likely because Kerapac and Zorgoth had a ‘falling out’ as you humans would say,” he surmised. “Not long after the birth of the Queen dragon, Zorgoth and some of his faithful took their experiments away to a place north of Sketherin.

“He had later moved to the far north, he stayed there for quite some time as well. I don’t know why he ended up returning to the Nodon-constructed Lithkren.”

Sakirth shook his head. “Never you mind that, Ston—, forgive me; World Guardian. I will help you forge your alloy, so long as you will do something to my benefit in return.”

“I’m listening.”

The Syrtes Elder gave the World Guardian a once-over, scrutinizing her both physically and mentally, determining whether or not he should make this proposal to her.

Her power is apparent; she is perhaps the strongest mortal being to ever walk this planet, he concluded. She certainly possesses the aura of one who is both charismatic and trustworthy, and she is a highly esteemed hero. The mortal races will be inclined to take her at her word, should she vouch for us, of that I am certain.

He became more and more confident with each thought. She has befriended both Phalaks and Vicendithas, so she is sure to have a positive opinion on us. She has begun to learn of our society from the ruins of Orthen, making her fit to explain our ways to the mortals. She’s even learned our language, perhaps more competently than any other non-Kin in history.

Yes, he concluded, there is no better advocate on Gielinor.

“I will aid you,” he declared, “on the condition that you promise to negotiate an agreement for me, with the various leaders of the mortal realms.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What sort of agreement would that be?” she asked.

“That if my people, or even a single member of my race, should decide to construct settlements or lodgings of our own anywhere on this world - suitably detached from your society’s major borders, I assure you - they will be peaceful, and be open to negotiations for trade.” Sakirth would accept nothing less than this, his body language made it clear.

The World Guardian mulled this offer over for many minutes, eyes focused on the blanket of white below him, quiet and contemplative. No longer did the frost affect her, nor did the bone-chilling gusts register on her countenance.

At first, her eyes betrayed uncertainty and skepticism, but the longer she thought, the more confident they became. Sakirth waited patiently for ten whole minutes before she was finally sure of her answer.

“The Elf lands, the kingdoms of Kandarin, Asgarnia and Misthalin, Morytania, and the Fremennik lands. I can guarantee you that much in all of those regions without question,” she affirmed. “I have very good relations with the ruling bodies of these lands, and even the gods are unlikely to oppose me in this.”

Sakirth nodded his approval, but made clear he wished to hear more.

“I simply don’t have enough influence in the Eastern lands,” she said, shaking her head. “But their islands are all largely inhabited, and none even come close to the size of Orthen.” These words came with an uncomfortable shift in her posture, though Sakirth could not discern why.

She looked hesitant to speak of the next area, evidently unsure how to explain it. “The Kharid… is in an… odd place right now, but Pharaoh Osman wouldn’t be Pharaoh Osman if I hadn’t done all his dirty work for him. He’ll agree to this if only so I don’t call him out on that - or call his cooperation into question - in front of the other world leaders.”

 Sakirth again nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“The island of Karamja could be ideal for your people, and the inhabitants there tend to keep to themselves in their own villages. I myself have done great favors for all of the largest tribes on the island, so I could negotiate this with them, but it would take more time to call a meeting of those tribes than the kingdoms.

“Lands owned by trolls and ogres are likely out of my reach, but the areas the trolls live in are mountainous and cold, and the ogre lands are frequented by human hunters, you wouldn’t like either.”

“And what of Orthen?” the Syrtes Elder asked. “What might happen should we wish to reclaim our old home?”

Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. “I imagine that one of the co-Guildmasters,” she pointed to herself, “would have no choice but to personally oversee the excavations, to ensure that things move swiftly. After all, we don’t want to spend too long on an island inhabited by large carnivorous predators, that’s very dangerous.

“You might end up having to live with a hyper-intelligent red dragon,” she added, “but he won’t impede you in the slightest. If anything, he’ll be overjoyed to be part of your society.”

Most races could not tell when a Dragonkin was smiling. Sakirth did his best to make his obvious, and her own abrupt turn from apprehensive to satisfied confirmed his success.

“These terms are acceptable…” he stopped himself, realizing he only knew her by title. “Ah, forgive me, your name, I don—”

“Sepulchre,” she interjected. “That’s the name most people know me by.”

He nodded. “These terms are acceptable, Sepulchre,” he repeated. “I will aid you in your attempts to forge a new alloy. I do hope you have some kind of plan for this?”

“I have more than just a plan - I have a team.” She declared with pride.

“You wish for me to work with others of your kind? Will they accept this?” he asked, unsure.

“Actually, only half of the team is human. There’s a Dwarf, an Elf, a Dorgeshuun goblin, a Sky Orphan from the East, and a Mahjarrat. The last one is disguised as a human. I know the disguise won’t fool you, but… try to remember? Please?” Her countenance was likely meant to suggest innocent pleading, but to him, it just looked strange.

“Very well. Now, where must I travel to meet this team of yours? Is it a long journey?” His wings spread out, prepared to fly.

Sepulchre took the dagger off her belt. “You don’t need to worry about travel distance,” she said, holding the dagger aloft.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, before ripping the dagger downwards, tearing a rift through the abyss. “You can just come with me.”

Sakirth eyed the dagger keenly. “That is a most useful tool you have crafted from the Roakin Blade…” he commented.

For the first time, her side-eyed glance towards him was one of caution, a defensive caution at that. “I can’t take full credit. The plans were drawn up by the same inventor who forged the aetherium. I torched his blueprints after creating it, and I forgot to memorize the design. How careless of me…”

Sakirth nodded, taking her hint. Indeed, too much suffering has already been caused by the abuse of the Roakin’s lazily discarded tools.

“Where will we be traveling, then?” he asked.

“The Dragon Forge,” she replied. “You know the one, near that lair where you nearly incinerated me, when I followed you after you killed V. I’ve relit it using very advanced fire magic.”

The Syrtes Elder stepped forward towards the rift. “Then let us go, before you freeze to death,” he quipped. “Castil galvek.”

“Combine what?” she asked, practically inside the portal already. She seemed eager to learn a new word.

“The word ‘galvek’ means fate,” he clarified. “The phrase ‘castil galvek’ means ‘to entwine one fate to another.’ With this deal, I am entwining my fate - perhaps the fate of my entire race - to your own.”

“Are you really sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, stepping through the gateway before he could answer.

Sakirth shook his head as he followed. “It’s the only idea I have, World Guardian…”